


Want You Back

by RenderedReversed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU of my AU?, Age Difference, Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Unofficial Sequel, Well more like a side story, lets go with that, to The Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6882547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. “Oh yeah, we go way back,” he said instead, quite a bit bitter without any sweet.</p><p>“Really? You two don’t seem to…”</p><p>“Match?” The accompanying grin was foul. “Yeah. I guess that’s why we broke up in the first place.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want You Back

Tom Riddle had been the bane of his teenage existence.

Alright, fine, that was a lie. Tom Riddle had been _the stars and the sun_ of his teenage existence, but good things didn’t last for a reason. There would always be something that went wrong. In this case, Harry liked to think it was both of them that did it, but he knew that was probably wishful thinking.

He’d been young. He’d been foolish. He’d been so utterly in love with his first crush ever that he never thought it’d end—that Tom would grow distant, less attentive, less _interested_ in him. There had never been anyone else to compare to, so Tom was his first and not his last. Harry figured they were doomed to end up that way, in retrospect.

He was so much older than him, after all. Ten years would be less significant if they’d been well past their thirties. Him? He was seventeen. Tom was twenty-seven. That was a disaster waiting to happen, he was sure.

Honestly, he was surprised they’d lasted so long. It probably helped that they’d been friends first— _good_ friends, not the I’ve-met-you-a-few-times-but-can’t-remember-your-last-name sort. Their relationship had lasted all of two years before they’d cut it off—nineteen and twenty-nine, newly single. Harry was done because he finally saw what they’d become, and Tom because…well, Harry didn’t know why, but he guessed it was because he was tired of dealing with someone so _young_.

They didn’t match, that was all. They had as friends, but something more was just…

Just too much of a good thing? Just too close, too intimate, too honest-to-lord _bad_? It was probably a little of everything.

And now _Harry_ was the one who was twenty-seven, so it followed that Tom was _thirty-seven_ , almost _forty_ bloody hell, and how exactly did they run into each other, ten years apart and aging? They ran in completely different circles—mutually exclusive, yes their social spheres were mutually exclusive. So how did this happen again?

He still hadn’t answered Draco’s question.

“I’m not even sure I want to know anymore,” his companion mused to himself. “You seemed…close.”

If they seemed close, why had they been so distant ten years ago? If they seemed close _now_ , how close had they been when they were actually dating? Harry didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. “Oh yeah, we go way back,” he said instead, quite a bit bitter without any sweet.

“Really? You two don’t seem to…”

“Match?” The accompanying grin was foul. “Yeah. I guess that’s why we broke up in the first place.”

Draco choked. It was good, Harry thought, that he’d pulled that one out when his friend wasn’t drinking anything. As much as he loved to make fun of his fair-haired friend, he didn’t actually want him hurt…most of the time, anyway.

“But, he’s,” Draco tried to say.

Harry nodded along. “An old man? Yeah.”

“Didn’t know you liked them old.”

“What can I say, it’s the wrinkles that get me.” Seriously speaking though, Tom’s face was still annoyingly pretty, even after ten years. What kind of products did he use to keep his skin so smooth? It probably explained why he and Draco’s father were business associates. Birds of a feather flocked together, as they say.

“At least he’s not as old as father, I suppose,” Draco muttered. “He’d definitely be a cradle robber then, and what should I tell my father when Riddle comes over? That his guest—”

“Let’s not go that far,” Harry interrupted. Tom would and always be a sore spot for him. The wounds of that time still felt tender, and he had no intention of hurting his heart again after all these years feigning nonchalance. It wasn’t like dating Tom had been traumatic—they hadn’t done much, and coercion had surprisingly not taken place—but they hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

He’d been young and idealistic. Tom had been older and pragmatic. They’d never been on the same page, and it took falling out of love to see it. It was a shame, because losing his best friend had hurt more than losing his first boyfriend.

Draco sighed and raised his metaphorical white flag. “You okay there?”

“It was a long time ago. I’m just peachy,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair.

“If peachy is code for _a walking disaster_ , then yes I’ll agree with you,” drawled Draco.

“Really, I’m good. It’s not like we’ll ever see each other again anyway. Horrible coincidence they’re having a meeting on the same week I’m helping you move out your stuff.”

Draco snorted. “Potter, _nothing_ is coincidence with you. Either that or you have the worst luck in the world.”

Harry despaired. He used to have _insanely good_ luck, thank you very much, but that had been when Tom had still called him his little imp, and when he’d still gotten high off the small insignificant kisses they shared, and when he still made him food every weekend because _god knew_ Tom should be banned from the kitchen—

“It’s not happening again,” Harry said, more to himself than his friend. “Freak coincidences happen.”

Draco took pity on him. “Right. Ex- stands for exit. He’s gone out the door for good, and you’re never going to see him again.”

“Right.”

“…Except for those times he passes by your window, and you can’t help but stare at his ass while he walks away—”

 _“Draco._ ”

“I said he was old,” his friend said, laughing, “I never said he wasn’t hot as hell.”

* * *

Freak coincidences happened way too often in his life. Harry sat extremely still—the stillest he had ever sat in his entire life; if he’d been in a museum people would’ve stopped to take pictures of him he was sure—trying to ignore the fact that Tom Riddle was sitting right behind him.

On a plane.

That would be taking off.

And then Tom Riddle would be sitting right behind Harry Potter ten thousand meters up in the air in a flying tin can, and somehow that was infinitely worse.

Why was Tom on a plane? Better yet, why was Tom sitting in the _economy class_ section, because Harry was sure as hell not in first class. Tom Riddle would never settle with sitting next to _plebeians_ , and the bastard could probably afford it, too. He’d been wealthy from inheritance when he was twenty-seven, and now that he was thirty-seven that was _ten years_ of investments and financially sound decisions sitting in his bank account. Tom had always been good at handling money.

Well, except when it came to Harry. Tom had always insisted on trying to spoil him rotten—which he had vehemently protested against—and that had been that. Actually, it was only during the last months of their downward spiral that he had stopped insisting. It had been one of the things that should’ve set warning bells off in his head so much sooner…but Harry had been young and stupid and in love. That was a hard blindfold to see through.

… _Aaand_ Tom Riddle was still sitting behind him on a plane. He hadn’t even seen him during security check or boarding; how did this happen without him noticing? Why was this his life? This was a _twelve-hour flight_. How was he going to sit _this still_ for twelve hours? Actually, forget sitting still; Harry was dead tired with all the packing and running to the airport, saying goodbyes and just the general pre-flight rush. He wanted to fall asleep for twelve hours and wake up twelve hours later, fully rested for the _post-flight_ jet lag.

He did _not_ want to be sitting still as a statue for twelve hours straight. Harry also didn’t want to be sitting in front of his ex-boyfriend for twelve hours straight, hoping to god that he wouldn’t notice who was also on the plane with him. _Please please please if there is a god out there I don’t care what religion you’re from, please have mercy—_

A flight attendant walked by, right past him but _stopping_ at Riddle’s row. _Dear lord. Please tell me you’re kicking him off this plane._

“Excuse me sir, but would you mind moving seats? We don’t have any open pairs for this mother and her daughter…”

Harry blinked. He slowly turned to his left, where a college girl occupied the window seat. An eye mask covered the majority of her face, and he remembered being quite envious when she pulled that out of her purse. She’d silently declared her plan to sleep the full twelve hours, plugged in her earphones and pulled on a blanket. On the wall next to her was the emergency exit door, which was probably the reason the flight attendant hadn’t picked him to move.

…Because.

Harry slowly turned his head to the right. Empty seat.

_Aw hell, I know where this is going—_

“Of course.”

_Please let there be an empty seat further back. Please let there be an empty seat further back. Please let there be—_

“Thank you so much! There’s an empty seat in the row in front of you.”

_Nonononononooo—_

Harry buried his head in his hands, trying to ignore the inevitable noise of Tom getting up, retrieving his things, and finally sitting down beside him. There was an audible pause in his rustling, right between when he sat down and when he was storing his laptop bag beneath his seat. In fact, this pause perfectly coincided with the moment when Harry felt eyes burning into the side of his head.

…This was happening, wasn’t it.

Harry sighed and let one of his hands fall to his lap. He peeked out from under his bangs to the sight of Tom Riddle’s stupid pretty face staring right at him. It was blank, of course; the best poker face he had ever seen. Still, he was still staring so Harry knew for a fact his poker face meant _jack._

What Tom was actually feeling? Only a god could tell at this point, but he was feeling _something_ so maybe Harry wasn’t the only person who wanted to jump off the plane.

“Hi,” he said, a bundle of nerves and awkward mess. It probably wasn’t an attractive look. “Fancy seeing you here.”

* * *

“…Hello Harry.”

Oh dear lord he had said his name. _Why the hell_ had he said his name. Wasn’t there an unspoken rule that as long as they didn’t say each other’s names, they could pretend like this never happened afterward? Actually, didn’t this rule include the, ‘I won’t talk to you for the rest of the flight if you don’t talk to me’ clause? He was pretty sure it did. Like ninety percent sure…and a half, ninety and a half percent sure.

Was his hair okay? Of course it wasn’t okay. He was both a mental and a physical mess, running around all morning and trying to make sure everything was in order. This, on top of the fact that his hair was _always_ a mess, practically guaranteed that beside Tom Riddle he looked like a slob. It was like putting a perfect apple next to a rotten banana. Who’d want to eat the banana?

…This was a bad analogy. A really bad analogy. He was a mess and _nothing about this situation_ was okay.

Tom finished putting away his things. Harry stubbornly looked the other direction, thankful that the girl had decided not to use the center arm rest. In the rules of flight etiquette, it should’ve gone to him anyway, but he was not about to wake up a sleeping stranger for something as petty as an arm rest. He was thankful for the fact that he didn’t have to, that was all.

God, what he would give to be asleep like her. Maybe if he had already been sleeping by the time Tom had moved seats, they wouldn’t have had this awkward encounter. It would’ve only been Tom who felt awkward; yes, that would’ve been nice. Let the bastard suffer while he slept on, oblivious to the rest of the world.

A quick side glance told Harry that Tom had pulled out a thick book he was fully intent on reading. The reading light was on and angled just enough so it was only on his side. Tom had no intentions to talk to Harry and Harry had no intentions to talk to Tom. This was good.

So why did he feel so offended?

It wasn’t like he _wanted_ Tom to talk to him. Lord no. That would be so bad, so terrible, so horribly awkward he’d want to curl up and _die_. They would have to clean his melting corpse off the seat, scrub down the entire plane to get the smell of a rotting human out of the walls. His friends and family would attend his funeral and read off his tombstone, ‘Here lies Harry Potter, who died of embarrassment sitting next to his ex-boyfriend on an airplane. May he find peace in the afterlife.’

Would Tom come to his funeral? Would he even be invited? Maybe he would as the person who had sat next to him on the flight, or maybe he wouldn’t for that exact reason. Traumatic experiences and all that. Then again, the idea that anything could traumatize the unflappable Tom Riddle was hysterical. Someone could be choking to death right beside him and all Tom would do is stare, right until the end when their heart stopped beating.

…Now that he thought about it, if Harry told the flight attendant he felt his life was in danger, would they switch him with another passenger? He was sitting next to a tired, lifeless college girl and an apathetic ex-boyfriend who probably wouldn’t care if he died choking on a pretzel snack. This did not prove well for his future prospects on this plane.

God, why did he have to be so morbid? Now all he could think about was Tom’s blank expression, a raised eyebrow as he stared down condescendingly—as if Harry was nothing but a bug under his shoe, as if he could just walk away and not care and not think and not _wonder_ , as if he’d never meant anything to him…as if he could just sit on this plane for twelve hours _right there_ in the aisle seat, reading a book and never saying a word to Harry.

He was a mess. This was a mess. Someone needed to stop him before he blurted out something stupid.

Just the thought that he _could_ and probably _would_ say something stupid made Harry clamp a hand over his own mouth, resting the same arm against the arm rest opposite to Tom. He tried to look normal, relaxed, perfectly fine and _not caring_ just in case Tom looked his way. No wonder he broke up with him—ten years and he was still as young and skittish as he’d been when he was seventeen. Tom would prefer someone more mature, someone who could keep up with his pace, someone who wasn’t Harry.

And, he thought, that was okay because Tom wasn’t good for him anyway. If Tom didn’t want Harry, then why should Harry want him? That was stupid and would only lead to him hurting himself. Yes, he was wise because he figured that out, so now that meant he could put a stop to it.

Put a stop to it? No. No. More like _guard against that ever happening_. Yeah, that sounded better. Harry was cautious. He wasn’t cautious when he was seventeen, but he was twenty-seven now so he knew how to be cautious. Caution was—caution was good. It was the thing mature people had, the thing he usually lacked. But he could be cautious if he wanted to. Like now. Now was good. Now was—

Sometime between Tom sitting down and Harry freaking out, the plane had taken off. Ascending made it easier to avoid looking at him. His head was leaned back, pushed against the cushions of the seat, and in no way did he desire to fight gravity and chance a look at Tom’s pretty face. Soon, the ascension stopped and the announcement came on telling them it was fine to take off their seat belts and turn on their electronics—not like anyone had turned those off to begin with.

Maybe he should browse his phone? It was full charge and he had a portable charger in his bag. He couldn’t use the internet because he didn’t want to pay the stupid airplane data fee, but there was music and he had earphones. He’d also downloaded some ebooks he could read, but then Harry thought about _what those ebooks were_ and hesitated.

Romance novels. He’d downloaded a bunch of cheesy romance novels, along with some good ‘ol Shakespeare to pass the time. This was _not_ what he needed right now.

Sitting there and doing nothing was also not okay. It made him feel—Harry didn’t know; it made him feel inferior? Maybe? College girl was sleeping and Tom was reading, and he was just going to do nothing? That made him feel like a total loser. He was _twenty-seven_ and Tom was _almost forty_. What did it say if the old geezer had something productive to do, but he didn’t?

Against his better judgement, Harry pulled out his phone. He was tempted to go for the earphones but he decided not to since they were in his bag, and getting his bag involved leaning over and maybe catching Tom’s attention. He didn’t want to do that—definitely not.

Between _Much Ado About Nothing, Twelfth Night,_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ , Harry bit the bullet and picked the last one. The first two were both comedies, but _Romeo and Juliet_ was a tragedy. For some reason, that was better than picking something with a happy ending. He didn’t _want_ to read a play that had everyone shacking up in the end—not now, at least—so one that had both main characters end up dying was infinitely better.

Halfway into Act II Scene 1, Harry was just starting to relax to the tune of Mercutio ribbing Romeo about his love for Juliet when he felt something brush against his leg. And stay there.

He froze. Harry was pretty sure that was _Tom’s_ leg—it was on the aisle side, college girl was small and asleep, it wasn’t low enough to be either of their bags so what else could it be? The last thing he wanted to do was look there but Harry felt a burning need to ensure _he_ wasn’t the one doing the touching.

…Yep. Not him. His leg was _firmly on his side_ , thank you very much, so Tom needed to shove off with his perfectly pressed pant legs and remember what personal space meant. He was not going to move, he was perfectly within his rights, and ex- stands for exit. He’s gone out the door for good. Harry’s never going to see him again.

And Draco was a bloody liar. What else was new?

Harry tried to go back to reading. At some point, Tom was going to notice where his leg was and then move it. He wouldn’t have to do a thing. All he would have to do is focus on Romeo, Juliet, stupid teenage shenanigans and _dear lord this was a bad idea his leg is_ still _there_.

When the leg shifted to press even closer, fuller against his own, Harry knew Tom was doing this on purpose—eighty percent sure. Well, fine, eighty- _five_ percent sure. And a half. Eighty-five and a half percent sure.

Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He jerked his leg away like Tom had sliced at it with a knife. Thank god college girl didn’t wake up because he was sure this couldn’t possibly get any more awkward. He tried to play it off by crossing one leg over the other, but the action had already been done—Tom chuckled dark and low, and now Harry was both horribly embarrassed _and_ blushing.

This was the exact opposite of a calm, mature reaction, _damn it_.

“I will turn over and punch you if you don’t wipe that smug grin off your face,” Harry hissed.

Tom clicked his tongue. “So violent,” he murmured. “I haven’t done anything to you, Harry.”

Just the way he purposely said his name—with literally no reason to do so; honestly Harry was sitting _right here_ ; who else would he be talking to, college girl? The couple watching a horror movie across the aisle?—made Harry feel like he’d lost the battle before they’d even declared war. It reminded him of how they used to be before those disastrous months. If they hadn’t been best friends before, Harry might’ve thought Tom was cheating on him then, but that wasn’t the man’s style—if Harry wasn’t offering him something he wanted, then Tom would just leave. No point in cheating since he could have _literally anyone he wanted_.

This was so messed up. Was it too late to jump off the plane? It was.

“Continue to do nothing, then,” he muttered. It had been so long that he had to go through his lock screen again to get back to Romeo’s hormonal mooning over Juliet.

Three minutes later and no sign of life from Tom, Harry thought there would be no more incidents of note. They could get through the twelve hours and move on with their lives like nothing had ever happened, easy. Harry would have successfully relocated to California for work, Tom would go on to do whatever he was leaving London for, and then they would never, ever meet again. He was completely fine with that.

And then Tom put his arm _right on top of Harry’s_ and that was the last straw.

Harry’s head snapped over, phone dropped into his lap as he prepared to throw a punch. Really, it wasn’t fair that Tom could get to play him like this in _one stupid airplane flight_ and then disappear off the face of the earth again. That wasn’t fair. It already wrecked him to see him at Draco’s house—that had only been for five minutes—now twelve hours and the man couldn’t leave him in peace?

Or, well, that was _going to be_ what Harry ranted about…until he saw Tom’s face.

“You’re, um,” he said instead.

Tom’s lips quirked up, not quite a smirk but not a full smile. It was only a small pull to the side but it was as attractive as it had been all those years ago. Resting on the bridge of his nose was a pair of reading glasses, thin black metal frames reaching around past his hairline toward his ears. Harry had always been fond of thick frames instead—something about them just made anyone look ten times cuter—but thin suited Tom like a duck suited water. And god did that remind him how good Tom looked in a suit—

He’d forgotten Tom wore reading glasses. He’d also missed them in his initial glance. That was a big mistake, Harry thought. A really, really, big fat mistake.

Damn it. Tom _knew_ he was weak to glasses. The amount of times Harry had started their snogging sessions, probably seventy percent of them were while Tom was reading. It was unbelievable what a stupid pair of glasses could do, but something about the addition made him look softer, more human, more of the dorky friend who couldn’t cook to save his life and _sucked_ at every casual social interaction _ever_ —

“Hi,” Harry said.

Tom’s half-smile became a full-on grin. “Hello. Decided to stop ignoring me?”

Oh, _now_ he remembered why he wanted to punch him. “ _Excuse me_. Who the hell is ignoring who here, _you_ —”

Tom laughed. The sound of something he hadn’t heard in years stopped Harry’s thoughts right on their tracks. He remembered loving that sound—wanting to hear it every second of every day. The things he did to make Tom laugh…he remembered all of them. Every tilt of the lips, every pun, every lame joke and every anecdotal story he’d told to get Tom to laugh, that had been the highlight of his days.

Even before they started dating, Harry had thought Tom laughed far too little. He chuckled, sometimes snorted, usually smirked—laughter? Something so unrestrained didn’t fit his character, Tom once told him, but _damn_ when he let himself laugh it made Harry feel a little bit more in love with him. To an extent, he thought it meant Tom trusted him with a side of himself he seldom let loose.

He wanted to make him happy. That had been the crux of it, hadn’t it? Harry would’ve done a lot of things to see Tom happy, and at the beginning he knew for a fact Tom would do the same. After, though—after, when they were near the end, he hadn’t been so sure anymore.

“You never changed,” Tom mused to himself.

All the same, Harry heard it and reeled back. His arm slipped out from under Tom’s with no intentions of defending his etiquette-promised right. Never changed? So that was all he saw. Ten years and Harry never changed, huh? Well maybe that just meant he was what he was, and since that clearly wasn’t what Tom wanted, then…then…that was that.

Tom reached over and plucked Harry’s retreating arm right off his lap, pulling it back on the arm rest. They shared it this time, somehow—Harry’s wrist caught gently but firmly in Tom’s hand.

“That’s a good thing.”

“Yeah, well.” Harry swallowed, turning away. “I can’t see why.”

Tom’s hand squeezed around his wrist. “Harry…”

Harry sighed. “Would you stop saying my name like that?”

“I do it to make up for the fact you haven’t said mine _once_.”

“I’m trying to keep my side of the deal here,” he blurted out, “And you’re not helping.”

“Deal? What deal is this?”

“Uh, maybe the one where we don’t talk the entire flight and then forget this ever happened?”

He could almost feel Tom’s frown through his words. “And is that what you want? To forget this ever happened?”

“Yes. Maybe. No.” Harry hissed his next breath. “That wasn’t what I meant to say. I meant _yes_.”

“Really.” Tom sounded entirely too smug about this. “You sound…unsure.”

“I am completely sure of myself, thanks,” Harry snapped. No, he was about as sure of himself as an elephant on roller skates was, but like hell would he tell Tom that. The smug bastard would never let him live it down—not like they were seeing each other again after this, because they weren’t. This was some freak coincidence that was _not going to happen again_. Tom was going to disappear, Harry was going to move on, and that would be that—finished. _Fini_. _Finito. Done._

“Why are you so insistent on this?”

“Why are you so _persistent_?” Harry shot back. “Actually, why are you here anyway? They kick you out of first class or something?”

 Tom hummed. “You’re cute when you’re defensive,” he remarked. “And I’m here because _you’re here_ , obviously.”

Thank small mercies that Harry wasn’t drinking anything, because if he was he was sure it’d have ended up all over his clothes. Instead, he said, “What.”

Tom’s reply was three hundred percent too casual for Harry’s liking. “I heard you were moving to California.”

 _From who_ was Harry’s first question. _Why do you care_ was his tentative second. Then, of course, came his third thought, which wasn’t actually a question at all. “You _stalker_!” he hissed, trying to keep his volume down and maybe failing miserably. “What the hell, Tom?!”

“Ah. You finally said my name.”

“No—no no no, _no_. What? _What?_ Are you listening to yourself right now? Is this some kind of _joke_? _No_! You don’t get to _say those kinds of things_! What the hell are you thinking? You don’t just—you don’t just _highjack_ someone’s flight because you hear they’re moving! And certainly not your ex-boyfriend’s! Come on, I know you suck at the whole ‘people are friends, not enemies out to stab me in the back’ thing but you can’t possibly be _this socially awkward_. Just, what.”

“I’ll have you know I paid for this flight legally,” Tom said, still far too calm in comparison to Harry’s increasing blood pressure. “And I was thinking _you_ were leaving London permanently. Leaving _me_.”

“What did I _just say_ about not saying those sort of things. Before a week ago, we hadn’t seen each other for _years_. And now you expect me to believe you didn’t want me to go? _Excuse me_? Tom, you had eight years to talk to me again. If you were able to find out I was moving to California, I’m sure you could’ve figured out what my phone number was or even my house address _years ago_. Really, what the hell are you thinking?”

It was incredibly embarrassing to hear an answer come not from Tom’s mouth, but one of the seats in front of him.

“He was probably thinking he’s still in love with you, is what I’m getting from this,” the anonymous passenger shamelessly said. To make it worse, several murmurs of agreement came from varying locations on the plane.

“See, they get it.”

Harry wasn’t sure what would kill him first, his severe case of embarrassment and public humiliation or the fact that Tom had practically confessed still being in love with him.

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “Has it been twelve hours yet.”

“Three, actually,” Tom replied. “So?”

Harry groaned. “So what?”

“ _So_ are you still angry with me?”

 _The nerve of this man._ “Let me put it this way,” Harry began, “If we were stranded on a desert island and the volcano was about to explode, _and_ there was a sounder of wild hogs chasing us, _and_ the jungle was on fire, _and_ there was a tsunami coming in, _and_ the only way to escape was to not be angry with you anymore, I would still be angry with you.”

Tom clicked his tongue. “That bad, huh?”

“Pretty bad, yeah.”

Someone in the back muttered, “Savage,” to which someone else replied, “Well maybe he deserves it? He might’ve been a really shitty boyfriend, for all you know.”

Harry groaned again. This was a mess. This was a terrible, horrible mess and he didn’t want to show his face in public for the next twenty years. He was sure the red of his cheeks would never subside, becoming a permanent color to his face, and then someone totally unrelated would ask why he’d had a sunburn for longer than a month. _Then_ he would have to go through the (once again) humiliating process of explaining no, this was not a sunburn, just an unhealthy dose of embarrassment and never ending shame.

“You can’t understand where I’m coming from?” Harry asked once he worked himself up again. “You can’t see just a little how mad this sounds? We broke up. Badly. Don’t even deny it—it was pretty bad, and I think either you or me threw a vase or two.”

“That was you. I threw the clock.”

“Ah, yes. I remember that. It nearly nailed me in the head, and _then_ I threw the second vase when you didn’t apologize for it. The point is, I was under the impression you weren’t in love with me anymore—a hundred and ten percent sure, actually—and now…what? You never stopped, or you realized differently, or ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’? Sounds a little bit unrealistic, and this is coming from the guy who was just reading Romeo and Juliet.”

Tom sniffed. “That’s ridiculous. Still got a bad habit of reading romance novels before bed, I see.”

“I’ll read whatever the hell I want,” Harry grumbled. “Besides, I think I deserve a better explanation than what our eavesdropping chorus has revealed.”

There was a pause where Tom considered what he was going to say. Now that he _was_ going to say something about it, Harry relaxed and waited patiently. He felt the pad of Tom’s thumb rub idle circles on the back of his hand, a soothing motion that made him think of nights talking on the phone with no real motivation to sleep. Insomnia, Tom had said. And if it meant staying up late to talk to Tom for the rest of his life, Harry had wished he had chronic insomnia, too.

He’d been the stars and the sun, too blinding and otherworldly for Harry to catch in his hands and contain. That light that had graced him he devoured, savoring each bite and every flavor. He wanted what affection Tom gave, and it helped that Tom was willing to give him plenty of it. As far as first boyfriends went, he really hadn’t been so poor of a choice.

It had only been the break up that had crushed him, the months of distance before it happened, the final end and the disappearance of his constant companion. Stay friends? How could they when Tom had so soundly broken his heart? Harry would’ve been forever haunted by what they had been. And maybe Tom knew, so he left him alone. Tom was annoying like that; he never said anything he thought didn’t need to be said, and that was practically seventy percent of all his feelings.

Harry had always been good at reading him—but if Tom didn’t want to be read, then who gave Harry the power to try? He was ten years younger than his boyfriend. They lived in different worlds, only colliding when one of them took the initiative to bridge the gap. There were things Harry could not do that Tom could, and that power sometimes left him at the mercy of Tom’s moods.

If he wanted to be alone, how could Harry stop him? If he didn’t want to talk, how could Harry make him? If he was angry, if he was sad, if he shut him out and didn’t let him in, how could he combat that? He couldn’t. He wasn’t enough. Of course Tom would leave.

“I couldn’t do anything,” Tom told him quietly. “I couldn’t fight for you. And I wasn’t going to let you fight for me—that would’ve torn you apart. So I left.”

“Fight for me?”

Tom hummed. “Your parents disapproved. They made their disapproval known very explicitly. I had no intention of tearing the family you so dearly loved apart. You would’ve, I know. You were very dependent on me.”

Harry wanted to punch him again. It was more of a desperation punch though, not an angry punch. It was a punch that would’ve said _why_ as well as _what do you know_ and _I hate that you’re right_.

“I considered it, of course,” Tom continued. “I knew your dependency was dangerous, but I admit I grew just as dependent on you. It would’ve controlled me had you not been there. So I decided on the wiser, long term option.”

Harry’s voice was thick as he asked, “And what was that?”

“Leaving. And waiting. I said you never changed, but you really did grow up well,” Tom hummed. “I did as well, I suppose. An extended break did us both some good, and for both your safety and mine, I refrained from asking about you or interfering with your life. It was purely by chance I ran into you while visiting Lucius. And then I learned you were moving to California.”

“Couldn’t let that happen, could you,” Harry mumbled.

“Yes, and no. On one hand, if you moved away I knew I would’ve lost you forever, but on the other, if you _did_ move then I wouldn’t have to confront your parents again—who probably still hate me, by the way. I wasn’t very nice when we last talked.”

“Ah. I can see that.”

“So,” Tom continued, encouraged by the fact that Harry was talking to him, “I decided to compromise. You were moving, for work no doubt, and I wasn’t going to stop you from pursuing your dreams. So I thought, why not I move with you? It was a perfectly fine solution. I don’t need to be in London for work, and this way I don’t have to fly back and forth across the pond for important meetings.”

“Flawless,” Harry deadpanned. “Except, you forgot one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“How are you so sure I’m still in love with you like you apparently are with me?”

Tom smirked. “One, the fact that you asked that question. Two, the look you had on your face when you saw me last week. Three, _I know you._ ” Tom flipped his hand over and tapped the center of his palm twice. “Besides, even if you _weren’t_ in love with me, there’s a simple solution to that.”

“Do tell, you evil mastermind.”

“I would just have to make you fall in love with me again.”

The way he said it made Harry lose all his breath at once. Confident. Tom was always confident—even when he wasn’t, he oozed the aura like there was nothing left to do with it. But that was the self-assured confidence. Tom was very capable, so naturally his confidence was justified. He knew his limits because he’d tested them previously, and a plan was never _his plan_ unless it involved ‘A List of Things That Could go Wrong and How I can Fix Them.’

This wasn’t _that_ confidence. This was the sort of confidence that wasn’t self-assured, but self-affirming. Harry didn’t wonder about the end result—he wondered about how Tom felt in the interim, sticking to his half-hatched plan without the ability to calculate the moves of his chess pieces. Was he ever scared? Did he ever lay awake at night, struck by that insomnia he’d so often complain about, wishing and wanting and reaching for his phone…but never pressing call.

Did he ever think, ‘Harry’s bound to not love me anymore by now’? Did he ever miss his cooking, the pastries and the soup and the hot dinners and occasional picnics? Did he wonder, ‘Just this time…one small peek to make sure he’s doing alright…’ and then have to stop himself? Did he ever turn around and open his mouth to speak, only to realize Harry wasn’t there? Did he write down stupid bits of information that he was sure he would love, and then remember it would be years before he had the chance to tell him? Did he pause and stare at his phone, wondering where Harry was and why he hadn’t texted him before the reality of the situation settled in again?

Harry had gone without his best friend. It only followed that _Tom_ had, too.

It was easy now that he was hearing it. Tom made everything sound easy. But the execution? That. If it was hell on Harry, then it had to have been hell on Tom. Really, if Harry wasn’t in love with him, then this single conversation would’ve been enough to trip him up all over again.

“I take that back,” he said, a small laugh bubbling to the surface. “Your plan really was foolproof.”

“Passed your examination, then?”

“With flying colors,” he assured. “Though I might be a bit biased. I know the examinee, you know. Hear he can be a bit of a jerk, but he’s a pretty swell guy.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t like him. He could probably give you a run for your money before you even realized you were halfway around the block, and then by that point it’s just playing the catch-up game with him.”

“Hmm.” Tom smiled. “He your type?”

Harry smiled back. “Unfortunately.”

“Oh my god,” someone muttered from somewhere on the plane, “Please let them kiss.”

His flush returned with a vengeance, which he cursed because Tom could actually see it now. It egged him on, goaded him until that preciously rare, genuine smile mutated into a wicked smirk. Harry despaired at its parting and determined to bring it back…at a later time, where there was no audience to inflate his ego.

“We will,” Tom replied back to them, raising his voice to let them know. “But later. Promise.”

Harry moaned and buried his face in his free hand. “Twelve hours yet?”

“Four and a half, sweetie,” a passing flight attendant said. “Any drinks?”

“Two teas, preferably earl grey if you have any,” Tom ordered easily.

The flight attendant jotted down their answer and shot them both a teasing smile. “No problem. Hope everything goes well for you two.”

Tom made a one shoulder shrug. “I’ve got seven and a half more hours. He’ll come around eventually.”

“He won’t if you insist on embarrassing him,” Harry muttered under his breath. “Is Draco in on this? He’s totally in on this, isn’t he. I’ll wring his neck later.”

For the third time, Tom clicked his tongue. “Your doubt wounds me. Weren’t you saying I could’ve figured out your phone number and house address ages ago? What makes you think I’d need help finding your flight number?”

Harry scowled. “Wishful thinking.”

“Oh Harry, you’re so cute. What else do you think I can’t figure out? I’ll prove you wrong by the end of the flight.”

“If this is your idea of a date, I’m breaking up with you.”

Tom laughed. “That’s alright. I’m sure I can convince you otherwise later."

**Author's Note:**

> I should not be writing this before finals. Why am I writing this before finals.
> 
> (I also really love this for some reason omg.)
> 
> To explain my tag and to make a long story short, this is my "unofficial" "sequel" to The Game, an incomplete gamer no magic TMR/HP AU, which can be found on FFnet under my penname. It was my very first TMR/HP, but I never finished it due to...reasons pertaining to my own development and disillusionment with the plot I had planned out at the time of its making. This fic basically ties the knot to both what I planned to happen and then what I wanted to happen--Harry's family disapproving of their relationship, but instead of them becoming okay with it through force, Tom takes the less violent route and settles on waiting.
> 
> So, like, it's an AU. Of my AU. Not entirely plot compliant to make it readable without context, but. For the most part, it's what I've had on my mind.
> 
> I'm not sure if I'll post this as the official sequel/ending, so for now it'll stay as unofficial and a separate oneshot. You don't need to read The Game to understand it anyway.


End file.
